In the mid-morning sun, I see pieces... of all that I am and want to be. Of all the beauty in the pain and suffering my abuse taught me. Of all the guilt I wore like a black, thread-bare cloak that sheltered me from the real understanding that I am NOT the abuse that happened to me. I am the brilliant and spectacular rose that bloomed despite a drought; the absence of love and acceptance that left me thirsting for sustenance. I was crushed under foot, but I am whole and continue to provide joy and beauty. My thorns are intact and will serve to protect me from future abuse.

Most people own many things, some more than others. As life changes for us, so do our “things.” We collect them, share them, give them away, and hopefully, forever keep the intangible ones! For me, over the years the term “things” has changed in more ways than I can count.

Thanksgiving has come and gone. I wonder if there could ever be a way to keep Thanksgiving in our hearts and lives year-round.

I often pause to think about anniversaries of specific dates in my life. Some bring joy and gratitude while others bring sorrow and sadness.

Last Monday was my mother’s birthday. She turned 82. To my knowledge, she continues to be lucid and in relatively good health. She also continues to be unkind and cynical. She was my abuser.

This is not an ordinary blog post, nor is it what you might expect to hear associated with a rooster. But we’re not talking about any ordinary rooster. We’re talking about Mr. Fancypants.